Vol.7, Ch.2, P.1
Merkulov—the school aswirl in conspiracy.
There, the air was grown damp and dour, and a grey light was in the sky, as Rolf and Björn briskly made their south-westward way from the north. Wary of enemies, they kept within the covert of a wooded patch stretching alongside a causeway that ran to their left. Far yonder at the west end, occluded by the boles, leaves, and boughs hanging about, loomed the monolith that was the Acadēmī̆a’s grand college.
However, though they shared this one destination, the two men could scarce be called “companions”. Nay, “accomplices by convenience” was more on the mark. But to Björn’s ears, even that bore too warm a tone, for highly dubious and inimical he was of his criminal counterpart. Rolf was a withersake, after all, and a commander to the Nafílim horde besides; never could such a mottled man have earned the good graces of the Praetorian captain.
This year had seen Björn turn three and fifty. Having served as a soldier of Londosius for nigh-on four decades, he was, by all accounts, a veteran hard and proven. And ever along those many winters of service, fast was his faith in the Deiva, hot was his hostility for the Nafílim, and undithering was his devotion to the Londosian destiny. In his eyes, therefore, Rolf was unmistakably an enemy.
But far overshadowing Björn’s scorn for the sicarius was his fealty to his charge: the young Princess-Regent Serafina. Unbending it was, even absolute; for in her compassion had she given him grace and goodwill—him: a mere man of common issue. Hence, so long as she yet wished to have words with the withersake, Björn, though he liked it not, would not dare do her guest the discourtesy of manslaughter.
Such conundrums swirled in the captain’s eyes as he turned to look at that same “guest”, who was walking and scanning about by his side. Despite his inner perplexions, however, Björn’s bitterness at once got the better of him, as his grey regard then soured at the sight of his “accomplice”.
“…Mh?”
But at that moment, something caught the captain’s attention. Verily; a veteran as he was, even amidst such mulling could he keep keen a sense of caution. And such caution told him now of new enemies at hand—enemies distant beyond normal senses to perceive.
There, across the causeway, and yonder south of their position, stood a three-storey building slowly revealing itself from a fence of trees as the two strode along. Somewhat small the structure was, being—as Björn remembered from his maps—a housing for books, scrolls, and other like papers of no immediate purpose. And through a window at its highest level, the captain espied a silhouette. Its hands bore a bow, and its eyes held a high watch.
Luckily, not yet had the figure found Björn or Rolf. The duo’s own share of trees was sheltering them quite well… only, it was soon to throng into an uncrossably tangled thicket that seemed to sprawl on and on and on, right up to the school’s very ramparts. Worse still, getting on to the grand college would require crossing the frontage of that manned bookhouse. Put plain, there was no way forward without detection and much fall of blood. And to Björn, that was a great bother. At the soonest did he wish to find his royal charge, not waste time swashbuckling with conspirators.
As he rued the situation, Björn then began to recall a conversation he once had with his disciple Praetorians.
‘…Captain…’ said one of them then. It was sweltering on that day, made all the more so by the field exercise at hand. ‘…The hostiles’re scarce to be seen… Whence we are, I’m afraid even a speck of dust outsizes the lot of them…’
‘…Be they invisible or no is nary the concern…’ Bjorn replied sternly.
The youths winced. ‘…A-aye, sir…’
An ear-pinching start to another lecture was it seeming much to them; and worse, one on some heady subject, they foresaw. What might Bjorn expound upon this time? The virtues of the sixth sense? An approach with a perspective more unbound? The underlings could but inly fret. Their captain’s intent, however, was actually upon a lesson more grounded than they were dreading.
Ever and always must a soldier see clear the battlefield about him. Assume the enemy’s mind; envision what might serve to their advantage, what places they would think to occupy. Once the guess is made, so may the soldier scry the enemy, no matter how far they be or how cunningly concealed. Such was Björn’s message, one hammered into these green heads many a time before. But the reality was, they really could not scry out the targets in this exercise. Too high above them those hostiles were, and too far off besides. Why, it was only by the briefing beforehand that they knew any enemy to exist at all.
Still, the exercise needed doing. Armed nevertheless with an awareness of their targets, the question to come was clear—whether then at the exercise, or now at Merkulov:
‘…What next…?’ the captain’s voice emphatically echoed. ‘…Come on, lads…! You have your riddle…!”
That “riddle” being a way barred by enemy eyes; a risk that must be chanced without choice. The young Praetorians scratched their heads.
‘…We wait and see…’ one of them proposed at last. ‘…A mite passive, perhaps… but if the enemy shifts, they might end up exposing some loose thread for us to pull…’
A textbook answer. Why dive into certain danger? Indeed, better to keep calm, couch, and await some turn of the tide. Unfortunately, the Praetorians found their captain none too pleased with the answer.
‘…What skein would be so kind…?’ resounded his rebuke. ‘…Try again…!’
Björn’s team within the Praetorian Guard was one tasked to the princess’s protection. Her life was in his hands, and withal those of his subordinates. A situation that should see her hoisted unto harm’s way, therefore, was to them as utmost and immediate an emergency as all the sky falling down. For such a disaster, passivity would indeed only aggravate than avail. And that, as Björn oft put it, is precisely the bodyguard’s battle: one waged against Time, Fate, and his own inner Faults. And on this day, that battle had come to Merkulov, where wasting even a grain of hour-sand was as to push the princess ever nearer the enemy’s hungry, champing jaws.
Björn had long feared that such a plight would visit upon her. Thus had he nagged his underlings till their ears did ring: that ever must they anticipate the worst of the worst. But nagged as he might, seldom had his point got across. Mind, this meant not that his underlings were lacking. Quite the opposite: they were all of them quick and capable after their own fashion, and respected their captain a great deal. And though loud and stern he was, they truly were ever eager to absorb his wisdom. Even so, they sadly never could fathom his full mind and meaning.
But could either be blamed? After all, not once before had the princess’s person been so imperilled. What is more, unlike their captain who had crawled his way up the ranks upon the battlefield, these younger Praetorians were themselves tame and tender, their combat experience comprising little beyond the usual spars and exercises.
This had troubled Björn for the longest time. How might he better get through to these youths? How might he foster their capabilities and careers? And that he was old and they young was a fact of which he was painfully aware. Indeed, as the winters went on, the veteran could not help but sense the generational remove growing more and more; that the world was leaving him behind—that he was letting his princess and his young Praetorians down.
Hence, here and now, was Björn humbled and embarrassed. Bitterly so. The utter unease, of having his princess both missing and hunted after, had grown the teeth of Self-Reproach, all to gnaw away at his conscience at every breathing moment. Also, he wondered of and worried for his Praetorians. Were they yet operational? Scant and scattered though they were? Björn frowned. O, had he only been a better teacher, or at the very least, a man less laconic and not so unpleasant, then they might have understood and applied his now too-relevant lessons.
‘…W-well…’ he next recalled his Praetorians saying. ‘…How about you, Captain…? What would you do…?’
‘…I…?’ he remembered answering. ‘…What else but disturb the skein…? Draw the enemy’s eye… smoke them out of their holes… Yes… two, three teams here should serve to…’
At that time, too, ought he have taught them, guided them if even a mite more properly. Split into teams? Smoke out the enemy? Easier said than done. And so, ever since the blast atop the steeple, and the estrangement and disarray that followed, Björn had been left biting and berating himself in his soul, rueing that he could not safekeep he Crown as he had so sworn to do.
“…örn…” there then echoed into his ears. “…Björn.”
And at that moment, the curtains of recollection were drawn back. The air was damp again, and the sky blank and grey. And there besides, looking slightly puzzled at him, was Rolf.
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Notes
Praetorian Guard
(Language: Latin/English) The guard of the Imperial Roman Army, working as bodyguards, intelligencers, and public security. In Soot-Steeped Knight, they are the royal bodyguards to the Londosian Crown.
Sicarius
(Language: Latin; plural: “sicarii”) A “dagger-man” or assassin of antiquity; namely, one of few within the Jewish Zealots, a movement in resistance to Roman rule. In Soot-Steeped Knight, it refers to any person suspected of bloody treason against Church and Crown.
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